


Maggie

by kw20742



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Badass Women, Canon Compliant, Canon Lesbian Relationship, F/F, Older lesbians, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2020-10-05 04:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 51
Words: 18,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20482616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kw20742/pseuds/kw20742
Summary: A companion piece to the lovely “Moments in Time” by spilled_notes. Because Maggie’s my fave. ;~)





	1. Saturday, 3 July 1999

Saturday, 3 July 1999

Let it be henceforth known to all the world (or at least to anyone who may find and read this journal loooong after I’m dead and my ashes scattered by the relentless wind along this craggy coastline ) that I am officially an idiot. Saw Jocelyn Knight earlier this afternoon, on the promenade here at the end of the world. She’s the barrister I know from London. Correction: I don’t know her; I know _of_ her. Covered a few of her trials back when I was on the crime desk at _The Courier_.

She kindly—and very expertly—lit my cigarette for me. I will never get used to the wind here; it just blows and blows. But _she_ knew exactly what she was doing. All I managed was a wordless stare. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was drool. That was my level of mute stupor.

I. Am. An. Idiot.

I was just so shocked to see her here. Still am. What in the hell is Jocelyn Knight doing in a place like Broadchurch?! If I wasn’t absolutely sure that she has no earthly idea who I am, I’d almost think she followed me here. Or can read my mind or something. I was literally _just_ thinking about her not even three months ago. Jason mentioned just before I left London that her trial was headed into closing arguments, and I couldn’t resist. Guilty pleasures, I guess. I should’ve been packing, but I stole a morning just a couple of weeks before the move to go and listen. And watch, too. I’ll admit it. That was back in April.

And then when I heard That Voice behind me this afternoon, so steady, so smooth, asking if she could light my cigarette for me… I think I managed to recover reasonably well. I offered her a cigarette. And was then very happy to watch her light it and take a good, long inhale.

Fuck, she’s gorgeous! Just so… Cool. Poised. Unflappable. Like a goddamn 1940s movie star.

That’s when I suspect the drooling may have started.

Thank goodness for Steve giving me a shout from the car and bringing me back to my senses. We were already running late. J.K. Rowling was at the Waterstones in Dorchester this evening for the release of the third Harry Potter novel. I’ll write up my notes tomorrow, and the story will go in Wednesday’s paper. A day in the life of a Wessex journalist: J.K. Rowling and Jocelyn Knight all in one Sunday!

I still wonder what the hell she was doing on the promenade in sleepy Broadchurch.


	2. Sunday evening, 4 July 1999

Sunday evening, 4 July 1999

Now I know: she’s _from_ here! Born and bred. She’s here on holiday, and her mum still lives in that gorgeous house with all the windows at the top of Briar Cliff. Such a fantastic view they must have. I love that meadow with all the wildflowers just as you come up on the footpath over the crest of the hill. I walk by there all the time, sit on the bench diagonally across from what I now know is her mum’s back gate.

In fact, that’s just where I was sitting this evening when I saw her again. And this time, I’m proud to say, I did _not_ make an idiot of myself. Thank goodness. I also remembered to check for a wedding ring. Nope. That’s potentially promising.

I apologised for my behaviour yesterday, and then we chatted only long enough for me to find out that she’s from Broadchurch and for her to find out I’m the new editor of the _Echo_. Then we stood quietly together, watching the sunset.

I often go up there after a hectic day, just to get away from the newsroom for a little bit. It’s nice to have some time by myself, but I didn’t mind that she’d disturbed my solitude. It was actually lovely to have her there. With me. I’m surprised by how easy it was. To just be, together. I didn’t feel any pressure to talk or to entertain her.

Then she walked me back into town, all the way to the top of the street here, where we finally introduced ourselves properly.

I know nothing about her except that she’s brilliant and beautiful and smells of lavender and summer sunshine. And that she’s well on her way to becoming one of the most highly regarded criminal prosecution barristers in the country. I learned from a little on-line reconnaissance conducted this afternoon via Lexis Nexis that she’s already a silk. Oh, the tools a curious journalist has at her disposal!

In other words, I know her not at all. But I’ll admit that I’d quite like to.


	3. Tuesday, 6 July 1999

Tuesday, 6 July 1999

Ran into J at the grocery store. Literally. I was rounding an aisle and there she was. With her mum.

I did a bit of snooping in the _Echo_’s archives in between conference calls yesterday. Broadchurch is a small town, and the Knights have lived here a long time. Jocelyn’s parents were both lecturers at Exeter, her mum in botany and her dad in history. And, not surprisingly, their daughter distinguished herself quite nicely at Wessex Secondary and then up at Oxford. Such a cute pic of a young J having won the annual spelling bee and another of her, a bit older, clearly eviscerating her opponents in a debate. And enjoying it immensely. There was also a photo from a May 1968 issue of J in her Oxford gown, accompanying the dual announcement of her early graduation _and_ admission to the Inns of Court School of Law. Local girl made good, indeed.

If I didn’t have some serious intellectual game myself, I think I’d probably just forget this whole project I seem to have on the go. To become Jocelyn Knight’s friend. At the very least. But I will not be deterred.

Anyway, so I met her mum. Veronica. Who teased J about not having already invited me to tea, revealing in the process that J spends all her time alone while she’s here.

Although it was funny, I did feel rather sorry for J in that moment and remain very glad that all my people are up north. No one in or remotely near Broadchurch to reveal any of my secrets.

And since it seems that she is, indeed, single after all, I flirted. I’ll admit it. I was brazen. Because I _do_ want her to invite me for tea.


	4. Wednesday, 7 July 1999

Wednesday, 7 July 1999

And, so she did. Invite me for tea. She came by _The Echo_ around half two, but I couldn’t leave in the middle of the weekly push. She actually seemed disappointed. And, truthfully, so was I.

I let her know that I’d either be finished or taking a break at six, if she’d like to come back. Which she actually did!

She was there a bit early even, but didn’t come in. Steve saw her waiting around the corner on his way back from the coffee shop and told me she was there, sort of hanging about. Waiting. For me, as it turns out. I wonder if she did what I’d have done, which is arrive too early and then worry about seeming too keen, so then you have to cool your jets somewhere out of sight until you’re fashionably late. Maybe?

In any case, I was hungry, so we had fish and chips instead of tea. She paid. (I’m trying not to read too much into that, either.) We chatted a bit. She’s very wary of me, both professionally and personally. The professional thing I understand; people get really weird around reporters. But I can’t figure out why she’s so surprised that I want to be her friend. She said she doesn’t have many. I don’t either. Not really. Strong, smart women usually don’t. So, I flirted some more. Because you only live once, right?

And the next thing I knew I had consented to let her take me out on her boat on Sunday.

What the fuck was I thinking?! And the answer is: I wasn’t. I was mesmerized, hypnotised, entranced. By that velvety voice, the earnestness of her argument, the way her eyes lit up. And, so I said “yes.” We’re to meet at half ten for breakfast at that little café at the top of the pier and then walk down to the harbour together.

Ugggggh. My stomach is churning just thinking about it. What if it _is_ like the ferry to France that time, and I puke my guts out all over the deck of her boat? I’ll never live it down, and I’ll probably have to go into witness protection. Just when I’m starting to get settled here.

I will pray earnestly for bad weather.


	5. Friday, 9 July 1999

Friday, 9 July 1999

The weather report is, unfortunately, looking beautiful for Sunday. I’ve thought about cancelling. I freaked out all last night and hardly slept. I hate boats. I hate the ocean. I hate boats _on_ the ocean. But Jocelyn just looked so happy and excited, and if I cancel, she might assume that I only said “yes” to humour her in the moment with no intention of actually following through. We don’t know each other well enough yet for her to know that’s not my style.

So, when she called me at work this afternoon to confirm that we’re still on for Sunday, I just went with it.

Which means suppose I should figure out what in hell I’m going to wear. What does one wear for an afternoon out on the bay? With a brilliant, beautiful barrister? A QC, for fuck’s sake! I am in waaaay over my head here. Underwater pun completely intended.

Hang on a mo!

No, I’m not. I’m a first-class honours graduate of the University of Manchester. I apprenticed at _The Guardian_, during which I was shortlisted twice for a Press Gazette Award for my coverage of the Yorkshire Ripper. Not quite worth the bloody nightmares, but it sure helped get me the gig at _The Courier_ when I decided to conquer Fleet Street. And I did finally win that damn thing in 1996 for the investigative series I did on the exploitation of women by/in the justice system.

Alright. I’m back. Pep talk over. I can make this happen. I just have to figure out something comfy to wear, something I feel good in.

To the closet! But only for a short visit. There’s no fucking way I’m going back in there.


	6. Saturday, 10 July 1999

Saturday, 10 July 1999

My morning at work lasted well into the afternoon, which was entirely unintended. But hardly surprising. It seems like something always comes up—even here in rural Dorset. Today it was a two-car collision on the A35 followed by a house fire over in Charmouth. Fortunately, no one was terribly hurt in either case, but traveling from one end of the county to the other did take a good chunk out of my day. I could’ve sent Steve over to one or the other, but he’s got kids, and it’s the weekend. Plus, I still love being out in the field; reminds me why I got into this racket in the first place.

For all that, though, I still don’t know what I’m going to wear tomorrow. I’ve narrowed it down to three possibilities, all involving my favourite pair of navy linen trousers, because, just my luck, the forecast is still calling for sun and a perfectly delightful 20 degrees.

It occurs: Is the temperature the same out on a boat as it is on dry land? I don’t think so. I should probably pack a sweater or light jacket, just in case. Or will I need those big rubber overall things I’ve seen the fishermen use? Oh, shit! I don’t have those. Where do I get them? Wouldn’t Jocelyn have said so if I need specialised equipment?

Now, I’m just freaking out.

This is getting way too complicated. I’m totally over thinking it. It’s just breakfast and a day on a boat, for chrissakes. With Jocelyn Knight. On whose shoes I will inevitably puke when I lose said breakfast all over the boat deck. At which point she’ll be done with me, and then none of this will matter anyway. Oh, fuck! This whole thing is a truly terrible idea.


	7. Sunday, 11 July 1999

Sunday, 11 July 1999

Well, that was not what I expected.

First of all, I survived, and I did _not_ puke on Jocelyn Knight’s shoes. Or on anything else, thank goodness. The boat was fine. Quite peaceful and relaxing, actually. J’s got a little portable radio, so we listened to classical music and sipped some delicious red wine while alternating between chatting and reading. Between the sandwiches Jocelyn’s mum packed for us, the alcohol, and the rocking of the boat in the warm summer sun, I actually relaxed enough to doze off for a bit.

I woke to find J looking at me. Pondering. Contemplating. What, I don’t know. I can guess. I’ve been ‘round the block enough times to know when a woman is interested. But she’s coming over for dinner on Saturday evening, so maybe I’ll find out then…

But I’m getting ahead of myself; all that was much later, after I learned that she played the cello at school. One of Bach’s concertos came on the radio, and she all but melted into the music. After that, I had to work very hard to _not_ think about those long legs cradling a cello, fingers moving over the strings, that rapturous expression on her face. The same face as the girl winning the debate in that photo I found in _The Echo_ archives. She hasn’t changed. Not really. Still tall, willowy, elegant. And very serious. But quietly witty, too. The latter has been a thoroughly delightful surprise.

She also mentioned that she’s been told she’s not very good at taking care of other people. I don’t know who told her that, why, or when, and it did seem a sort of odd, sad thing to say given the context, but I saw no evidence of it. She was genuinely kind and understanding about me being absolutely terrified to get on that boat, and she made sure not to let me drink on an empty stomach. In fact, I suspect she allowed me to experience today something that not many (if any) others have: her private self, completely relaxed. And I really am honoured, especially because I know how wary she was/is of me because of my day job.

I seem to have invited her to come here for dinner on Saturday, and she said yes! I barely thought the question before I heard myself asking it out loud, and I honestly don’t know how I will get through this week. I wish it wasn’t going to be so busy at work, though; lots of events marking the end of the school year. But all that means I won’t be able to see J until then. And, sadly, she’s heading back to London on Sunday. At least the chaos will make the week fly by.


	8. Thursday, 15 July

Thursday, 15 July

I went for a quick walk up on the cliffs this evening, half hoping to meet J up there. Or catch a glimpse of her from the footpath. Or maybe I was hoping she’d see me walking past and come out to meet me? Is it weird to miss someone you’ve only just met?


	9. Saturday, 17 July

Saturday, 17 July

Such an intriguing evening. J came for dinner. It was fun. Fascinating. Confusing. Exciting.

I didn’t exactly plan to come out to her; I hadn’t really even thought about it. It just sort of happened. She mentioned that her dad was disappointed that she didn’t follow he and her mum into academia, which reminded me immediately of how much I disappointed my own mum. By being, well, _me_.

I tried to make a joke of it, tried to turn it into not that big of a deal, but it still cuts deep, even after all these years. And I think J could sense that, understood it somehow, without me having to lay out all the details. Maybe she’s experienced something similar? Might this be where/how she learned she’s “not very good at taking care of others?” The intimation being, of course, that she’s selfish. By wanting to follow her heart, I wonder?

Why can’t we all just be who we are, and love who we want to love? But I digress…

As soon as it was out of my mouth, Jocelyn felt very close in my tiny kitchen. Especially with the oven on. And I know I blushed; I could literally feel my cheeks turn red.

In hindsight, I think I might have been testing her: Is she a lesbian, too? (There are so many signs, but I still can’t be sure. It seems, though, like she would’ve said so given the circumstances.) And if she’s not, does she care that I am?

Apparently, the answer is “no” on both counts.

Dinner was lovely. Good food (if I do say so myself), even better wine, and excellent conversation—once I recovered from having unexpectedly dropped my own damn bombshell. Sometimes I really can be such a fool, making life deliberately difficult for myself. But I suppose it’s for the best, to know the answer to both questions.

Still…

We talked long into the evening, through dessert, a second bottle of wine, and a move to the sofa. There were a few times I noticed her looking at me the way she did on the boat. Curiosity? Desire? Amusement? Confusion? And then, as she was leaving, she turned, looked first to the floor and then directly at me, and said that she wished she could stay in Broadchurch a few more days.

I laughed it off, said that she’ll probably forget all about me once she’s back in London. She assured me she wouldn’t. I do hope she doesn’t, but I can easily see how she might. And then she leaned in, so close I was able to finally figure out that she must use a lavender scented shampoo, and I got a kiss on the cheek!

Fuck fuckity fuck! I honestly don’t know what to do with myself. I started to clear the dishes, but I’m too wired.


	10. Sunday morning, 18 July

Sunday morning, 18 July

Jocelyn just left her address in the letterbox! I thought about opening the door, seeing if I could catch her before she goes, but I'm in my jammies and haven't got through my first cup of tea yet. Haven't actually looked in a mirror. Still: A clear invitation to write, to keep in touch!


	11. Sunday, 24 July

Sunday, 24 July

Letter to J written, posted, and ready to mail. I forced myself to wait a whole week before writing. I don’t want her to think me too eager. I was writing it in my head all week, but when I finally sat this morning to put pen to paper, it was pure agony. It took me the whole day, but I finally got it done. It was short, mostly stuff about surviving all the end-of-term chaos. And I thanked her again for spending the last evening of her holiday having dinner with me.


	12. Tuesday, 3 August

Tuesday, 3 August

Finally got a letter from J! I was starting to think maybe she’d forgotten all about me after all. I’m enclosing it here for safe keeping.

> _Sunday, 1 August 1999_
> 
> _Dear Maggie,_
> 
> _How lovely to receive your letter. I’m terribly sorry it’s taken me a few days to be able to respond properly. I have a rather complicated brief that’s going to trial next week, although we didn’t know finally until yesterday, and sorting all that has taken all my time and energy since I’ve been back._
> 
> _I’m delighted to hear you’ve made it through your first last week of school in Broadchurch before the summer holidays. Sounds busy, but quite fun. I look forward to reading all about it in _The Echo_. Mum usually sends me the latest issues. I quite enjoy keeping track of what goes on in Broadchurch, particularly since you’ve taken charge of the paper. The quality is much improved under your deft leadership._
> 
> _I must confess to having read some of your pieces from _The Courier_. I was curious about which of my cases you’d covered, so I had my clerk do some digging. I didn’t realize you’d also covered Greenham Common and the Yorkshire Ripper. I can’t even imagine how difficult both must have been, but for quite different reasons. Still, good writing’s good writing, and it’s a pleasure to read yours._
> 
> _I am so pleased to have finally met you. Thank you again for dinner. It was a truly enjoyable evening, and the lasagna was delicious._
> 
> _Good luck house hunting. I do hope you’ll let me hear how you get on._
> 
> _With warm regards,_
> 
> _Jocelyn Knight_

She is “so pleased” to have met me and was intrigued enough to get her clerk to unearth some of my old articles. Ancient history now, but so much a part of how I still do my work. I’ve seen her in action at the Old Bailey, so I’m glad she’s read some of my early stuff, nice that she knows a bit of what I do, too. Although now I know she reads the _Echo_, I don’t think I’ll ever write again without imagining her as my audience. That’s good; forces me to maintain my high standards, both for myself and the paper.

I’ve already written back to her and will put the letter in the post tomorrow. To hell with seeming too eager. Why should I hide my regard? She is smart and impressive, and strong women need to support and advocate for other strong women.


	13. 27 August 1999

27 August 1999

Well, my first August in this tourist town by the sea has flown by. How did that happen? It was a blur of constant buzz in the shops and on the beach. And visitors kept wandering into the paper, asking for the Tourist Info Office, so we were continually pointing to the other side of the lobby—even after hanging what I initially thought was an overabundance of signage. Turns out we’ll need even more next summer.

But schools are back in session next week, so things should quiet down a bit. Until all the concerts and school plays start, that is.

I think August went so fast in part because I always had a letter from J to look forward to. I love to tease her about what I might have learned about her from her mum, with whom I’ve become quite good friends. The last couple of her letters have even got me remembering things I haven’t thought about for years. J asked me, for example, how and when I knew I was gay, and I’ve been thinking lots about it. I told her I think I’ve always known. But that it wasn’t until secondary school, when all my friends had crushes on Elvis and the Beatles, but mine were on Petula Clark and Dusty Springfield, that I could tell something was wrong. And it was me. _I_ was wrong. I knew enough to know that. 

And then, in another letter she wanted to know when I came out. I responded: when I was at uni. But the answer is much more complicated than that. It seems I’m always coming out, every time I meet someone new, every time I hire someone for the paper, every time I attend a conference, when I decided to make friends with the enigmatic barrister from London. I come out all the time, over and over and over again.

I also wrote to her that I never did actually come out in the first place. Not really. I was out_ed_. I had moved to Manchester for uni, and then London. I could be myself. But then I went home for my ten-year class reunion. And so did Susan Morris from down the road. We’d grown up and, as we discovered, _out_ together, although, unfortunately, neither of us knew it when we really could’ve supported each other. But we immediately clocked each other as kin and kind from across the lobby of the hotel, and it was a brilliant weekend after that. Until Mum saw me kiss her goodbye at the train station. And not just a peck on the cheek either.

Why is J asking these questions, I wonder? I don’t mind answering them; I’ve had a lot of therapy to help me be proud of who I am in a world that doesn’t believe I should exist. But it’s almost as if she’s testing the waters, wondering if maybe my experiences could help to explain hers? So many people our age are still deep in the closet, trapped by internalized hatred for themselves, for who they know they shouldn’t be according to normative social expectations. Perhaps J is one of them?


	14. 12 September

12 September

Veronica mentioned the other day that J’s taken a renewed interest in the _Echo_, and that she talked of nothing but me when Veronica was in London a couple of weekends ago. And now I will go dance for joy around my tiny kitchen.


	15. Saturday, 26 September

Saturday, 26 September

I was at a conference in Exeter this past week, and I popped into a little hole-in-the-wall used bookshop on my way back to the hotel yesterday afternoon. I knew from the window display that it would be just my sort of place: floor-to-ceiling shelving chock full of every imaginable title, loosely organised by subject, sometimes by author, and crammed in every which way. As it turns out, there was also a little music section in back, CDs and records and sheet music and such, and I found the perfect gift for Jocelyn!

I wasn’t actively looking, but since that day on the boat, I’ve been thinking about how to thank her for the gift of letting her guard down. With me, _for_ me. I tried a few letters ago to explain that I understand how special that was, how much I appreciated it. And although I didn’t say so when I wrote, I’ve also been remembering – and, admittedly, longing to see once again – J’s enraptured expression as we listened to that Bach piece. I don’t remember the name of it, but I know it was a cello concerto.

So, I started flipping through the Bach CDs, and there it was, right in front of me: his cello suites, played on the lute! I don’t know when I’ll give it to her, but I saw it, and it said, “take me home,” so I did.

I even remembered to pay for it first, for which the shop owner was very grateful.


	16. Wednesday evening, 29 September

Wednesday evening, 29 September

J called me. This afternoon. At work. Because she’s having a bad week and just wanted to talk to me. Her most recent letter came last week when I was in Exeter, and I haven’t yet had a chance to reply.

Of course, today was the worst possible day for it, but it was both early enough and late enough in the day for me to have a good sense of where we were with putting tomorrow’s edition to bed, and I felt alright taking a few minutes’ breather. Just to hear Jocelyn Knight’s voice. And to try to cheer her up a bit.

It seemed to work, because by the time I was done regaling her with my beleaguered realtor’s various exploits to find me a house in this tourist town that is both in my price range _and_ within walking distance of my office on the high street, she was laughing. And so was I.

I gave her my home number and invited, encouraged, her to call anytime. And she gave me hers.

I have Jocelyn Knight’s home phone number!

I have to admit that it was difficult to go back to work after that. I’m trying not to make too much of it. But it’s hard not to hope, especially because hearing her voice again, that silky tone and sultry timbre, has made her real to me in a way that our letters haven’t.

I miss her.


	17. Thursday, 30 September

Thursday, 30 September

Although we just talked yesterday, I called Jocelyn this evening. Just to check in, make sure she’s feeling better. And, alright, to hear her voice again. I was nervous picking up the receiver; my hand was actually shaking as I pushed the buttons! But the smile in her voice after I announced myself was an immediate tonic for my own rather difficult week.

We chatted for about an hour, about the current trial that’s causing her so much angst. Apparently, the judge is a right sexist prick, and her descriptions of his antics got us commiserating together about how difficult it’s been for us both to be women in male-dominated fields, and in jobs thought to be the purview of men _in_ those fields. She’s not angry about his sexism towards her, _per se_ (although he _is_), but about what bearing his opinion of her may have on her chances of winning the case for her client. As she put it, “if the judge doesn’t think women should be barristers, but your barrister is a woman, what chance do you have, really?”

It was genuinely pleasant, one of the easiest conversations I’ve ever had.

She said to me something like, “I don’t know how you’ve managed it, being a woman _and_ being gay.” And I told her my biggest obstacle has been the sexism. When I need to, I can go stealth on who I prefer to sleep with. Most people seem not to be able read me as a lesbian; you gotta want it. Of course, that invisibility, that erasure, is part of how homophobia works. But I can’t hide, nor would I want to, the fact I’m a woman in a man’s job. We both agreed: It takes so much energy, all the little everyday slights and comments and assumptions.

Ironically, for me, sexism has meant being a lesbian has _almost_ worked in my favour: I got my job at _The Courier_, my first permanent gig in London, b/c when they expressed (sexist) concern over me leaving or taking time off to get married and have kids, I responded quite impudently, and not without sarcasm, “Well I’m a raging dyke, and I hate kids, so no worries there.”

Honestly, these newspaper guys can be so fucking obnoxious.

But my conversation with J this evening also confirmed that she’s not out. At least not at work. And maybe not even to herself. Or maybe not gay at all? Did I just imagine the way she looked at me that day on the boat? We had such a short time together, and my high regard for her may be influencing what I think I remember.

Despite my doubts, though, I can’t seem to get Jocelyn Knight’s voice out of my head now. I don’t mean in a creepy, horror movie sort of way. But in a way that sends liquid heat into my core. I want to touch her. I want her to touch me. I want her with me, on top of me. Inside me.


	18. Friday morning, 8 October

Friday morning, 8 October

Had a dream about J that was so vivid, I just woke myself with my own orgasm. Honestly. I don’t even know what I’m doing.


	19. Tuesday, 12 October

Tuesday, 12 October

I have a meeting in London in a couple of weeks, so I’ll be able to see Jocelyn! I figured I’d stay the weekend anyway, see some friends, but when I suggested this evening that we should make plans to get together, she didn’t hesitate to invite me to stay at hers. 

I wasn’t fishing, I promise. But I do admit to hoping she’d offer. I have this feeling that if I’m able to see where she lives, the jumble of puzzle pieces that comprise this beguilingly enigmatic barrister will start sliding into place.

It was funny, though: she didn’t realize I was saying that I want to see _her_. I think we might be back in that “I don’t have many friends” space. When, I wonder, will she stop being surprised that I’m one of them?


	20. Thursday, 28 October

Thursday, 28 October 

I get to see J tomorrow! Have to be up unconscionably early so I can get the first train to London for my meeting at 10:00. There had better be coffee. After that, I’m having lunch with a few colleagues who, for some reason, want to brave the hordes at The Old Bell. But as it’s my first time back on Fleet Street since moving to Broadchurch, I’m game. 

Only after all this do I get to see Jocelyn. We’re to meet at Fountain Court at half two, and then I get her all to myself for the whole weekend! Well, at least until I get back on a train on Sunday morning.


	21. Still 28 October

Still 28 October 

I can’t sleep. I have to be up in five hours to get dressed and head to the train at Axminster, but I’m too wired. I keep running over and over in my mind the time we spent together back in July and all the little bits and pieces of the puzzle from our letters and phone calls.

We haven’t planned anything or talked about the weekend at all. I’m so excited to see her, to just be able to be in the same place, together.


	22. Sunday evening, 31 October 1999

Sunday evening, 31 October 1999

Spent the weekend in London. At Jocelyn’s. I am bewitched. I am ensorcelled. And I am in So. Much. Trouble.

All the way home on the train this afternoon, wrapped in the plum cashmere scarf Jocelyn lent me, I kept telling myself not to get too excited, not to make too much of it. Be sensible: It can never work. Our jobs are demanding, unpredictable. We neither of us have regular weekends for travelling back and forth. We are responsible to others, accountable. She’s frustratingly logical, and I so often just go with my gut. She’s an introvert, and I am decidedly not. She guards her privacy ferociously, and I just let everything hang out. She lives in London. I live in Broadchurch. Her life is there. Mine is here.

And that’s the irony: I lived in London most of my adult life, worked for fifteen years in a newsroom not five blocks from her chambers. Covered a few of her cases. Why couldn’t we have met sooner? Why didn’t I introduce myself to her that day I saw her in the lobby of the Old Bailey ten years ago?

My heart is beating so fast, and my hands are shaking. I’m being ridiculous. I’m 44 years old, for fuck’s sake! What is _wrong _with me?!

I am in love. I’m sure of it. And I don’t even know if she’s interested in me.

Yes. Yes, I do.

What I _don’t _know is if she _knows_ she’s interested.

On Friday evening, I bought wine, I made risotto. I gave her the CD of Bach’s cello suites that I bought when I was at that conference in Exeter. As a ‘thank you’ for putting me up for the weekend, to be sure, but also to see that enraptured look on her face again, melting into the music. And maybe then into me?

But no. I stayed in the guest room.

Does she know she wanted to kiss me when we landed together on the couch last night? At least, I _think_ she wanted to kiss me.

It was such an enjoyable day followed by a delicious dinner followed by drinks at a dimly lit bar. How she looked at me, how close she sat next to me in the cab…

When we got back to the flat, I couldn’t bear for the night to end. I wanted to hold her, to touch her, to feel her body in my arms, smell her lavender shampoo. So, while she made the tea, I found some music on the stereo.

Then I asked her to dance.

She almost said “no.” I could see it in her eyes, the inflection of her lips, the almost imperceptible tilt of her head. But then something made her change her mind. I don’t know what. She took my hand, pulled me in, and we just swayed together until she took the lead, navigating us around furniture and my two left feet.

It was such fun! To laugh like that! To feel the heat of her palm in the small of my back, her hand in mine, her breasts brushing lightly against my own… And then we tripped and fell onto her sofa together, still laughing. Until she looked at me with an expression for which I still have no words, and then abruptly sat up and passed me my tea.

It was the same look she gave me that day on the boat: Wonder? Curiosity? Fear? Lust? Love? And then it was gone.

So much happened in that moment: My heart was beating so fast. I longed to push her curls behind her ear, wanted to caress her jaw, to feel the soft curve of her lips on mine. I felt her breath on my neck, the weight of her on top of me, her hips pushing into mine…

But then she pulled away.

I wish I had kissed her when I wanted to. I think she would’ve kissed me back. I think she would’ve. Or maybe not.

What is she afraid of? What am _I_ afraid of? What the fuck am I doing?! I don’t think she’s out! Maybe not even to herself. These past few months I’ve learnt so much about her, but almost nothing at the same time. She has this whole life in London that I don’t really know anything about, despite all our letters and phone calls. She likes her compartments, that one.

I’m in love, I’m sure of it. And I think I hoped this past weekend would be a turn, a twist. A possibility for something more between us. It’s not like me to know when a woman’s interested and do nothing about it. But, then again, I’ve never been in love with someone who’s so deep in the closet she doesn’t even recognize herself. 

I am in such trouble. I need a cigarette. And a cold shower. Not necessarily in that order.


	23. Shameless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spring 2015, sometime before the start of S3, but after Part 15 of my series, “Something Like Love.”

“And that,” Maggie proclaims as she closes the black moleskin notebook and kisses the top of Jocelyn’s head, as if burrowing into a field of lavender, “is the story of how I fell in love with you.” 

“That was your journal?” asks Jocelyn, lifting her head off Maggie’s chest and stretching her chin upwards for a kiss.

Grinning, Maggie obliges, dropping a playful peck first onto Jocelyn’s nose and then more fully onto her lips, by now curved upwards into a soft smile.

“Yup. Found it yesterday while I was packing.”

“Is there more?” Jocelyn queries, returning to her repose in the crook of Maggie’s arm, head to chest, ear to heartbeat, ready and more than willing to sit here, just like this, for the rest of their lives.

“Yes…”

Having heard the hesitancy in the reply, Jocelyn asks gently, her fingers plucking at the hem of Maggie’s cardigan, “Will you read it to me?”

Maggie shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

“You need not spare my feelings.”

“It’s not only _your_ feelings I’d like to spare,” she replies, leaning forward to set the notebook on the coffee table, ousting Jocelyn from her resting place.

Jocelyn is forced to sit up as she reminds Maggie, “But we haven’t talked about it, not really.”

“Because it’s done,” Maggie counters decisively, “You’ve explained, apologized. We certainly wouldn’t be here together, _married_ for chrissakes, if you hadn’t. What does any of it matter now?" 

“I don’t know. But it does.”

“Jocelyn,” Maggie begins sternly, narrowing her eyes so that she might look more intently into those pale pools of blue, “is this some fucked up masochistic self-punishment thing? You know how you like to do that.” It’s part playful tease, part admonishment.

“No,” Jocelyn insists, reluctantly acknowledging with raised eyebrows and pursed her lips that her recent history does lend itself to that interpretation. But not this time. “I promise. It’s just… I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Yes, I do, Maggie. But more than that, I want to _know_ you. I wasted so much time. And there’s still so much I don’t know.”

“A lifetime is a lot to catch up on." 

“Let me try?”

Maggie protests with a groan.

“You’ve worked so hard to understand me, _forgive_ me. I owe you the same. Please keep reading.”

“It was such a long time ago, Jocelyn. I don’t want you to be hurt. I don’t want _us_ to be hurt. All over again.”

“We won’t be. _I _won’t be. I treated you terribly Maggie. I know that. So let’s conjure our ghost,” Jocelyn encourages, gesturing to the journal on the coffee table in front of them, “and put it to rest once and for all.”

Inhaling deeply, Maggie looks to the ceiling and then down to her journal. She doesn’t remember what she wrote there all those years ago, only that she was angry. And confused. And, in retrospect, heartbroken. And she’s wary of dredging it all up again, doesn’t want to cry again, doesn’t want to go back into that devastating emotional space. What good would it do?

Jocelyn’s response is to twine her fingers with Maggie’s as she urges, “I’m right here. We’ll slay the dragon together.” 

“For fuck’s sake, Jocelyn,” Maggie cries melodramatically, “you know I can’t, with the mixed metaphors.”

But Jocelyn only grins. Widely. Exuberantly. Joyously. She likes proving that she can give as good as she gets. But with Maggie’s wry sense of humour and quick wit, it’s not often that she gets the chance to do so. So, when she does, she likes to gloat. Ostentatiously. 

And then, eyes locked onto Maggie’s all the while, she rucks up Maggie’s cardigan to trace little circles onto her abdomen. “Please? I want know you.”

“You know me quite well already,” Maggie retorts, enjoying very much the pulse that Jocelyn’s feather light swirls are producing low in her belly.

“You know what I mean," she whispers into Maggie’s ear, "I want to know you. In _here._” She slides her hand up from Maggie’s abdomen to her chest, fingers grazing the soft fabric of Maggie’s bra on their way to feel her heartbeat. “I want to know as much as I can about the woman who stole my heart that windy July day on the Broadchurch pier.”

“You are shameless,” Maggie pronounces through a crooked grin.

“Yes,” Jocelyn concedes, leaning in for a kiss, "And _you_ are beautiful. Now," she says sternly as she hands Maggie her journal, "go on.”

So, with a playfully exasperated rolling of her eyes, Maggie takes the notebook from Jocelyn, who nestles back into the crook of her arm. Home.


	24. Monday, 1 November

Monday, 1 November

Jocelyn called me this evening. Even though I was just there, just left her yesterday morning, waving goodbye from the platform at Waterloo. It’s too long until Christmas.


	25. Wednesday, 10 November

Wednesday, 10 November

Arrived home this evening to a letter from Jocelyn. I enclose it here for safekeeping.

> _Saturday, 6 November_
> 
> _Dear Maggie,_
> 
> _I know we’ve spoken since, but I want to thank you again for a lovely weekend. I can’t remember when I last enjoyed myself so much. _
> 
> _In fact, I’ve been thinking quite a lot about something you said during dinner on Saturday evening. You were telling me a (very funny) story about the intoxicated American Santa at a holiday office party you were at some years ago, and you mentioned that you attended with your then-partner. _
> 
> _I’d like to ask you a question, and, as usual, I trust that if you don’t want to answer it, you’ll say so. Here it is: How _ _did you tell your colleagues about her? _ _Were they accepting of her? _ _How did you – and she – negotiate this? I’m thinking not only of your holiday office party, but also of dinner parties, professional networking events, and the like. _
> 
> _I’m just curious. About you, about how you navigate a life I know nothing about. I admire your courage. _
> 
> _On the subject of which, Mum told me you were out this past Saturday evening, covering the offshore rescue of some fisherman from a helicopter! You, who are afraid of water and boats! Of course, I look forward to reading the story in next week’s paper, but I do hope you’ll tell me all the behind-the-scenes details when next we chat. I’ve never been in a helicopter, and I long to hear what it’s like. You must’ve been quite something, climbing in and out of that contraption._
> 
> _How’s the search for a house coming along?_
> 
> _Talk soon,_
> 
> _J_
> 
> _P.S. It’s such a long time until Christmas, isn’t it?_

I already wrote my response; it was too important to wait. I’ll post it tomorrow from work. I wrote to her: First of all, it’s not courage, it’s necessity. I can’t be anything other than who I am. (Which, I suppose, is its own sort of courage.) Second, I’m fortunate that the newsrooms in which I’ve chosen to work have, for the most part, been willing to evolve in response to the social movements they’ve covered. They’re not perfect, and when they’re not, I’ve had to say so and demand changes, but, for me, they’ve been better than fine. And third, when I _have_ been partnered, my colleagues learn about her in the same ways as I imagine _I _learn about _their _partners: over coffee, at the water cooler, through anecdotes, by sharing everyday stories.

What I didn’t write is that, despite her claim, I don’t think Jocelyn is “just curious” about any of this. More and more, it seems to me as if she’s trying to figure out how to come out, and how to _be_ out. Especially at work. I also didn’t write that I worry she doesn’t know how to be anybody other than who she _thinks_ she should be. Or who she thinks she _has_ to be. Those concerns are best shared in person.

But how do I share them without outing J to herself? It’s not my place. Or is it? How do you say to your friend, the woman you love, that she’s been hiding – even from herself – for almost fifty years?

And what if I’m totally wrong about her?

I’m not, though.

And she _is_ right about one thing: It’s a long time until Christmas.


	26. Weekday evening, November

Weekday evening, November

I don’t know what the fuck day it is, and I’m too salty at the moment to figure it out.

I met the vicar tonight. I was at St. Bede’s covering the Wessex Youth Orchestra concert and got waylaid by that ancient fucker in the parking lot. 

It was a such a fun evening: 40 kids from all over Dorset making gorgeous music and having a damn good time doing it. I chatted with a bunch of them and their parents at the reception afterwards; got some great quotes for the story that will be in next week’s paper.

They played Bach’s prelude to the first cello suite and a couple other classical pieces of which, thanks to Jocelyn, I actually know the names. In fact, I found myself wishing she were there, sitting in the pew beside me, so I could nudge her playfully and say, “See, I know that one now!” But I’ll write her tomorrow.

So, anyway, a lovely evening spoilt by the following encounter:

I was literally on my way out to my car, and the vicar, who must be in his 70s, called after me. I’d seen him here and there throughout the evening, but my business wasn’t with him, so I didn’t think much of it. I turned ‘round just as he caught up to me. With neither introduction nor preamble, he proceeded to give me an imperiously stern lecture on how (1) since he’s a leader in this very small, tight-knit community, I, the new editor of _The Echo_ and an_ outsider_, should’ve made it among my top priorities to come and see him when I first moved here back in April, and (2) I will burn in eternal damnation for “having made certain life choices.”

When I asked, as innocently as I could, what he could possibly mean, he said to me, condescendingly, as if I were a child who needed scolding and molding, “You. Are. {insert audible inhale here, nostrils flaring, eyes wide.} Not. Married.” I said no, offering no further explanation or information. Then he said, “I’ve recently learned of your… {insert pursed lips here, like a tiny, little anus} preferences.” 

All that shit right there is code for “being a lesbian.” Or maybe, since he’s such an ancient fucker, it’s also code for being a single, childless woman who dares to have her own career and know her own mind. Who the fuck knows? Either way, he made it very clear that I was _not_ welcome in _his _church.

Whatever. I’ve been down that road a gazillion times. It’s infuriating and exhausting, but so predictable, really.

He _is_ right, though: I should’ve gone to see him first thing. I’m so used to living in cities, I just didn’t think about how important the Church often is in these little towns.

I blew that one, I’ll admit it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entry is my version of the encounter Maggie mentions to Paul in a cut scene from S1, which is included in the DVD extras.


	27. Monday, 16 November

Monday, 16 November

I’ve been thinking about my encounter with the vicar last week. And also about Jocelyn, about how she got to be so deep in the closet that she doesn’t even recognize herself and what she wants. Who she _is_.

So, I did some digging: Reverend Peter “Pete” Yewings was born and bred in Litton Cheney, trained at Trinity College, Bristol, and was appointed vicar at St. Bede’s here in Broadchurch in 1959. _19 fucking 59!_ I was 4 years old, for chrissakes, up in Yorkshire, sitting on the curb in my pedal pushers sucking a popsicle, and J would have been just starting at Wessex Secondary. This man, this homophobic, sexist prick, was the vicar of Jocelyn’s youth. And continues to reign with a fist of iron. Thus, so much becomes clear. He is the face of the Broadchurch she grew up in.

It makes me want to scream and cry and throw things all at the same time.


	28. 19 November

19 November

I bought a house! Signed all the paperwork this afternoon! No more renting! Finally! I can paint every fucking wall purple if I want to! I mean, I don’t, and I won’t, but it’s incredibly liberating, empowering, to know that I can.

My poor, beleaguered realtor managed the impossible: a small bungalow within my price range _and_ within easy walking distance of the High Street. The man is a gem.

There are two bedrooms, one to sleep in and one for a home office/guest room for when one or the other of my sisters and/or the kids visit. It has a garage and a cozy sitting room with a fireplace, perfect for curling up with a book and a brew on a blustery winter’s day. There’s a dining room, and even a sunroom that opens up onto a little backyard, offering endless possibilities for me to commit repeated acts of plant homicide. Wholly unintentionally, of course, but it’s bound to happen. Veronica will be horrified. Still, it will be nice to have some outdoor space to call my own.

I want to reno the kitchen and replace the flooring before I move in, so I’m hoping to get those projects rolling within the next couple of weeks. I’d like to be sleeping in my new bedroom by Christmas. Dare I hope it could be with Jocelyn?


	29. 24 November

24 November

I’m so excited! The contractor had a cancellation, so it looks like he can start laying flooring on Thursday and then move on to the kitchen renos next week! I might just be living in my new home by Christmas!


	30. Thursday, 2 December

Thursday, 2 December

Veronica invited me for Christmas dinner! I’m beyond thrilled—and not only because it means more time with Jocelyn.

I was actually just this morning trying to figure out a way to pop up to my sister’s in Halifax for a couple of days, but I don’t think I’m going to make it.

The thought of spending Christmas Day by myself isn’t particularly appealing. But I can’t really get away; I’m the boss now, not to mention the only one of us at _The Echo_ who doesn’t have children. But I told Carrie: as soon as I’m settled in my new house, I want her to bring the girls down for a visit.

Holidays, I’m learning, are when it gets particularly tricky to be the editor-in-chief of a local community paper; when everyone else is off, I’m still hard at work. But, at least now I won’t have to spend Christmas Day alone.

Relatedly, I think Veronica’s helping Jocelyn and I along. She wants my spending Christmas Day with the formidable Knight women to be a surprise.

I’m part of Jocelyn’s Christmas surprise! From her mum. And I don’t mind one little bit.


	31. 9 December

9 December

I’m moving into my house in three days! Jocelyn’s coming for dinner on Christmas Eve! And I honestly can’t decide which is more exciting!


	32. Sunday evening, 13 December

Sunday evening, 13 December

Spent the weekend moving—again, and hopefully for the last time. I said only half-jokingly to my realtor that someone’s gonna have to wheel me out of this place, one way or the other.

He didn’t laugh. He doesn’t quite know what to make of me, I’m afraid. But it is rather amusing to watch him try.

The longest I’ve lived anywhere since leaving home was at my last flat in London, but six years wasn’t nearly enough to make up for having moved 8 times in the 12 years before that. Now: I’m done! No more boxes, no more trying to figure out where everything should go.

As soon as we all get through the holidays, I’m going to invite my staff over for an open house celebration/thank you party. My very own “Welcome to Broadchurch” shindig. I could also invite a few of the friends I’ve made here. Perhaps Yvonne. Gloria at the addictions centre and, of course, Veronica. Maybe Jocelyn will be able to come down…


	33. 18 December

18 December

It was getting down to the wire, but I finally found the perfect Christmas gift for Jocelyn. It’s humorous and useful and a little bit of luxury all rolled into one. I was in Weymouth yesterday for a lunch meeting, and on my way back to the car park I passed a local knit/yarn shop.

As it turns out, in addition to the expected stock of needlework and fibre arts supplies, an impressive array of yarns, and other things I know nothing about, they sell local, handcrafted knitwear and accessories. In fact, the pale grey blanket that caught my eye in the window display was knitted by the 94-year old great aunt of the woman who owns the shop.

What first drew me to it was that it’s the colour of J’s eyes, glinting in the sun on the boat that day. But it’s also unbelievably soft, with a slight sheen and an intricate cabled pattern. The shop owner explained that it’s made of angora, a type of yarn that her great aunt spins herself from the fur of the rabbits she’s raised in her backyard for more than sixty years. A Wessex tradition, rooted in this beautiful place, just like Jocelyn.

The added bonus is that giving it to Jocelyn will be a perfect opportunity to tease her about being a Southerner; her flat was stiflingly warm.

And I admit, too, that I hope she’ll think of me. When she’s back in London, wrapped up in its soft folds.


	34. 23 December

23 December

Veronica called me at work this afternoon to ask if I’m able to pick up J from the train in Bournemouth tomorrow. It seems the station in Axminster is closed for a few days for maintenance or repairs or something, and it’s ridiculous—not to mention expensive—to take a taxi all the way from Bournemouth. Of course, I said “yes!”

I’m not entirely positive that Veronica didn’t have this up her sleeve in any case, particularly since she knows J’s having dinner here tomorrow evening. But, hey, I’ll take it!

It does mean, though, that dinner will have to be a bit less involved than I had planned. But I can whip up a curry using the chicken I was going to roast, put it in the slow cooker before I leave, and it will be just about ready by the time we get back here.

Aaaagh! I get to see Jocelyn tomorrow! I can hardly believe it. She will be here, in my new house. My first dinner guest in my new dining room.

And I’m trying not to expect, not to hope, too much. But I can’t stop thinking about the weight of her on top of me when we fell together on her sofa, about how she looked at me in that moment, about how I wish I’d kissed her when I wanted to. 


	35. 24 December

24 December

Spent such a lovely evening with Jocelyn. Dinner was very tasty (if I do say so myself), and she brought dessert: a box of delectable mint chocolate truffles from Fortnam & Mason. Such a treat! We enjoyed them while curled up together, but separately, on the sofa under her Christmas blanket (which she loved, by the way), watching, of all things,_ The Muppet Christmas Carol_ on the telly! And I can honestly say it’s been a long time since I enjoyed a Christmas Eve so much.

Except…

Here I sit, alone, writing in my comfy chair in my new living room, a raging fire in the fireplace and a glass of wine to hand. I’m listening to the CD of cello music she gave me for Christmas, and the lights on the tree are twinkling, reflecting off the gorgeous bauble that was also part of my gift.

I got stuck in traffic this afternoon on the way to pick her up, so I had no time to grab a brew or even run to the toilet, and when I saw her on the platform, she took my breath away. Such a cliché, but it’s true.

We chatted in the car about her current case, my new house, and her plans for her holiday.

When we got here, I had a brief moment in which I was desperately jealous of my own books, the way J’s long, slender fingers stroked their spines. But I managed to pull myself together, especially once I learned that Veronica would pick her up at 11.00 for Christmas Eve service at St. Bede’s. A Knight family tradition, apparently.

And I can’t pretend not to be disappointed; I really did wonder if she might stay the night. With me.

I looked for a way in, tried different ways of moving us in that direction, searched for any indication from her that she might be thinking along the same lines. I even asked her, as nonchalantly as I could whilst giving her a tour of the house, why it is that she never married.

She was wishy washy, to say the least. Said she’d been engaged for a short time in law school, but it didn’t stick.

And then she asked me why _I_ had never married, so I had to remind her that I can’t, that her justice system has made it impossible for me to do so, as has the Church of England.

Then she got snippy with me about it not being “her” justice system, to which I asked, “Of the two of us, who’s the QC?” There wasn’t much for her to argue about there, so I said to her: go council the Queen to fix my problem for me, and then we could talk about whose justice system it is. That seemed to stay the issue—on all counts.

Until just before she left, that is.

We heard Veronica pull into the driveway, so I walked her to the door, and as she was donning her coat and scarf and marshalling her suitcase, she thanked me again for the blanket and apologized for not thinking to ask me for dinner tomorrow. I assured her it was perfectly alright (of course it is, and not only because Veronica’s already invited me!). And then, as she was leaving, everything happened so fast: I opened the door, she leaned in for a hug just as I waved to Veronica waiting in the car, and then somehow the kiss she intended for my cheek ended up sort of on my cheek and sort of on my lips and she hovered there, stunned, and then she pulled away and apologized, laughing a bit, embarrassed.

I laughed, too. It was all just so silly, the rapid sequence of events. It was like an accidental boob graze, but with lips. Our very own comedy of errors.

But then she looked at me again with that expression of hers, the one I first saw on the boat that day, the one for which I have no words, but that arrests my heart. And propels liquid heat straight to my core. 

And so here I sit, alone. On Christmas Eve. Still in desperate need of a cigarette and a cold shower. And clarity. Clarity would be such a relief. Is there a way to tell her I’m in love with her without (1) losing her friendship if she’s not interested and/or (2) not outing her, even to herself?

I don’t know how to do this with her! It’s as if all the rules I know don’t apply.


	36. 25 December

25 December. Morning.

Happy Christmas! Slept in fits and starts for most of the night and finally fell asleep for real just after 3.00. Too excited, I think. And, frankly, too turned on. I can’t stop my brain, and I feel as if my skin can barely contain the energy fizzing all around inside. In short, I am in a sorry state.

I finally woke around 9 – and only because Carrie rang up so I could talk to the kids. I wish I could’ve made it up there, even if just for a few days, but I’m the boss now. Will have to figure out some way to do it better next year. Or maybe make sure to arrange taking some time off right before or after. We’ll see.

In the meantime, though, I’m having Christmas dinner with the formidable Knight women! Veronica said it’s a casual affair, so I’ve decided on jeans, a forest green blouse with a light green fern-ish sort of pattern, and my dark green cardigan. I look good in green. Sets off my eyes nicely.

This. This is where I am. I’m rolling my eyes at _myself_, that’s how ridiculous this all is. It’s as if I’m back at school.

Veronica charged me with bringing dessert, but I couldn’t decide if I wanted to go fruity or chocolate-y, so I made both: a yule log and raspberry shortbread cookies. Made them the other day, and now I need only to remember to put them in the car. Which isn’t really that difficult, but with the random journeys my mind is taking these days… You’d think I’m a squirrel, for fuck’s sake.

Ooh, and I’ll also bring Jocelyn’s scarf back to her, since I forgot to give it to her last night. I had it sitting out by the door, but with our bumbling at the end there, I just forgot.

Later…

Jocelyn invited me to spend the day tomorrow with she and Veronica and Neil! Apparently Boxing Day also happens to be the day of the annual Knight family Scrabble tournament, a family tradition begun as soon as Jocelyn could read.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

J was genuinely surprised to see me this afternoon. And quite pleased, I think. I honestly can’t believe Veronica managed to keep it a secret from her all this time. She did admit to having come close to spilling the beans this morning when, in her words, “Jocelyn was moping so pathetically.”

Of course, the woman in question vigorously denied any such thing, but I did notice the blanket I gave her last night was lying, rucked up and quite comfortably loved, on the chair in front of the fireplace. A copy of Jhumpa Lahiri’s _Interpreter of Maladies_ was left to languish, open and face down on the arm rest, so I rescued it while taking the opportunity to gently chastise Jocelyn for treating a book, any book, but also _this_ book, thusly. She rolled her eyes at me.

So, whether or not she was “moping,” I know what she was reading while curled up in her Christmas gift. I can only hope she was also thinking of me.

There were Christmas crackers for everyone, and dinner was delicious: sage and onion dressing, a succulently moist turkey (which, apparently, was Neil’s doing), carrots, and cranberry sauce. Everyone seemed to enjoy my desserts very much. There were plenty of leftovers, so none of us will starve during tomorrow’s Scrabble tournament, that’s for certain.

Since Veronica and Neil cooked for us, Jocelyn and I volunteered to clean up. After a reminder from Veronica that the porcelain can’t go in the dishwasher, followed by a huffy but playful “Yes, Mother,” from Jocelyn, we found ourselves together in the kitchen.

She washed while I dried. Neil and Veronica were chatting in the living room, watching and commenting on the Queen’s Christmas broadcast, listening to carols on the radio. And J actually flirted with me. I think.

We were just chatting. She told me about how, when she was little, it was her father who had bought a new bauble for the tree every year, and how she started the tradition again after he died. And I told her about how my sisters and I used to sing carols—very badly—outside the local homeless shelter on Christmas Eve. To this day, I’m still not sure how we weren’t arrested for causing a noise nuisance!

But as all this was going on, J’s fingers kept brushing against mine lightly, over and over again, as she hand washed and then passed to me the dishes for drying. She complimented my baking and asked about my plans for the week. I reminded her that I have to work, and she said, disappointed, that she’d hoped I’d let her show me some of her favourite local places. I said I’m totally game in theory, but that I’m just not sure what work will look like. Told her I’d know better by noon on Tuesday. She also mentioned that when next I come up to London, we could… 

But I have absolutely no idea what her list included (she mentioned a women’s history walking tour, I think), because I got stuck on the fact that she’s hoping I’ll visit her again! My answer is YEEEEESSSS!

And when we finally got ‘round to putting all the dishes away, there was a lot of hands grazing hips, arms, and waists as we danced gingerly around each other in that small kitchen. Surprisingly small, for such a big house. Despite the kitchen’s diminutive size, though, I do wonder how much of all that physical contact really was accidental.

She’s trying this out, I think. Testing herself. And I’m more than happy to let her. But I’ve got to figure out soon how to move us on to the next stage, because I’m gonna go broke smoking all these extra packs of cigarettes.


	37. 26 December

26 December

Boxing Day, a.k.a. the annual Knight family Scrabble marathon!

Now, here’s the thing: I’m a writer. I use words for a living; it’s how I pay the bills. It is not, therefore, unreasonable to think myself a master of word play. Indeed, while Scrabble has never been the mainstay in my life that it has obviously been in Jocelyn’s, I’ve won a game or two in my time. 

But holy shit! These Knight women are next level. And they’re ruthless. I won a few games early on, but it became quite clear that they were just taking it easy on me. Neil had the good sense to bow out after the third game; he wandered off to the conservatory to read a book and listen to Chelsea play Southampton. But not me. I stuck it out. I managed to squeak by with one more win just after lunch, but that was it. I got lucky with a zed on a triple word score.

After one breathless, final game, during which Veronica deftly wrestled the title from reigning champion Jocelyn with the word “chutzpah,” she declared the tournament over and went to make the tea, leaving J and I by ourselves crouched over the coffee table in the living room, slightly dazed, both wondering what sort of word sorcery we’d just witnessed.

It was the first time all day we’d been alone, just the two of us, and I couldn’t resist: I proposed a themed friendly. My suggestion: body parts.

Chutzpah, indeed.

I am utterly brazen, I know, and I promise it wasn’t premeditated. It just sort of popped into my head and out of my mouth before I really had a chance to think about it. And, much to my surprise and amusement, J agreed! While she did glance briefly into the kitchen, presumably to see if Veronica and Neil were suitably occupied, she didn’t even hesitate.

Sadly, the game ended up being very U-rated. I can’t speak for J, of course, but I most certainly would’ve been quite a bit saucier if my letters had lent themselves to it. But no such luck. The most exciting I got was “thigh” on a double word score.

Still, it was fun, and we laughed all the way. I got us started telling stories related to the words we were putting down, and I learned about J’s eyes that she’s always thought her lids too droopy. I didn’t say out loud what I was thinking, which was that they make her mysterious, intriguing, sultry. But when I told her that I hate that my nose is crooked from having broken it playing cricket when I was ten years old, she got very quiet for a few seconds and then said quite seriously, “Your nose is perfect,” all the while looking at me in that way. The way she looks at me. I still can’t describe it.

So, a few minutes later, when she played “hand” and showed me the tiny scar on the inside of her palm, just at the base of her thumb, where a kitten had scratched her during the spring she was caring for the stray litter she’d found while walking in Litton Woods, I leaned over so I could look more closely and kissed that spot. “All better now,” I said. I might also have accidentally let my thumb graze the soft skin on inside of her wrist. Accidentally.

All done quite strategically, of course, so that she might interpret my actions as “just friendship” if she’s so inclined.

It was a lovely day. 

On my way out the door, J asked me out for lunch tomorrow, but I can’t do tomorrow, so we settled on Tuesday instead.

I didn’t notice until I was halfway home that Veronica never did bring us our tea.


	38. 27 December

27 December

I had a hard time staying focused at work today, esp. because the Tourist Info Office was closed for the bank holiday, and only Steve, Amy, and I were holding down _The Echo_. Was a dreadfully slow day, and much too quiet to prevent me from wishing I was with J, whom I envisioned all soft and cozy, curled up in her new blanket in the chair by the fireplace, reading.

I called her this evening. Just to check in, to confirm that we’re still on for lunch tomorrow. She said she’s looking forward to it. So am I.


	39. 28 December

28 December

We shared a tuna sandwich and argued about the House of Lords Act. I’m actually surprised that Jocelyn disagreed with it—and me.

I asked her: In an alleged democracy, why should certain members of government get to inherit their posts simply because their families are old and wealthy? But Jocelyn kept yammering on about tradition and stability. 

Of course, she was gorgeous while she did it. She even banged firmly on the table at one point to emphasize something or other about continuity in decision-making, which (I have to admit) was a serious turn-on; it was like seeing her in court all over again.

But I’m a working-class girl from Wakefield, the proud labour activist daughter of a union household. I’m also a feminist. I want my leaders to be elected, thank you very much, to represent the peoples’ interests. And to advocate for equity and justice. Perhaps a bit pie in the sky, but the House of Lords Act is a start, in any case.

I did wonder for a few horrifying minutes there if I may have accidentally fallen in love with a Tory! But, no. I didn’t think so; I can usually sniff that horse shit out. J certainly isn’t as far to the political left as I am, but she’s no Thatcherite either. Thank goodness.

She walked me back to _The Echo_, where we parted ways, she for a walk home, and I for a busy afternoon chained to my desk. As much as I love my job, I’d have much rather been with J.


	40. 29 December

29 December

J came by _The Echo_ today to invite me for tea, noting (again, as she did last summer) that my poor pot plant could use some love and care. “So could I,” I thought to myself but somehow (thankfully) managed not to say aloud. I did, however, playfully rebuke her for always picking Wednesdays to remember to think of me; it’s the busiest day of my week, for fuck’s sake! She apologized and countered quite cheekily with, “I don’t have to _remember _to think of you.”

It is just as I’d hoped!

The weather is so beautiful, she said, that she couldn’t stay inside, and she thought I might like a break.

I was positively gutted to have to decline her offer, especially because there’s so little time before she goes back to London. But she called me earlier this evening to ask if I’d like to join her on a walk early tomorrow afternoon to one of her favourite spots in here town. And since tomorrow looks to be a relatively quiet day at work, I happily agreed to her plan.

I don’t know where we’re going, and the forecast is calling (as usual) for balance-altering wind, but if Jocelyn Knight wants to go for a walk with me, I’m all in.


	41. Thursday, 30 December 1999

Thursday, 30 December 1999

She brought me, as she phrased it, “to meet her father.” And my heart simply melted. I would’ve gone anywhere with (and done anything _for_) her in that moment.

It was a strange date, to be sure, in the churchyard at St. Bede’s. So odd—but oddly endearing—to be a silent yet very much active participant in such a deeply personal experience. And knowing how much J values and guards her privacy made it all the more meaningful. 

Her dad’s gravesite is among those on the side of the hill overlooking the entire expanse of Broadchurch, the bay on the right, with Harbour Cliff and the downs beyond. The headstone reads simply, “Loving husband and father.” I’ve walked up there dozens of times, sat on the nearby bench, just along the footpath by the fence.

I tried to hang back, to give her some time and space, but she invited me to stand beside her, wrapping her arm around mine, while she said to him, as if he were right there with us, “Dad, this is my friend.” She paused here just long enough for her to give me that look (how she looks at me!) before continuing, grinning as she said my name, “Maggie Radcliffe.”

To watch _those_ lips wrap themselves around _my_ name, to hear it spoken aloud in that velvety soft, commanding voice. I have no words. There _are_ no words.

And while I was busy trying to collect myself, still standing silently by her side, hair whipping in the wind, arms linked, hips touching through our various layers of jumpers and winter coats, she told him a bit about her recent cases, how Veronica’s doing, what was coming up for her in this next little while once she’s back in London. All perfectly conversational. Then, from somewhere deep in a pocket, she brandished a single, perfect sprig of holly, kissed it, and placed it at the base of his headstone.

At which point, she thanked me for coming with her. Thanked _me_! When I was—am—the grateful one. For her care, for her kindness, for the precious gift of sharing all that with me. She’s very good at taking care of _me_, and I could think of nothing to say, nothing to do but reach for her hand and squeeze it as firmly as I could to convey all that I was feeling. Respect, friendship. Love. For this gifted barrister. This beautiful woman. The little girl who still misses her father.

One of the very many things she and I have in common.

And when I tried to pull my hand away, she didn’t let me. She held fast, eyes locked onto mine, and pulled me firmly toward her, entwining our fingers. I think my heart stopped as we stood there, face to face for I don’t even know how long. I only remember her other hand reaching out to fiddle with one of the buttons at the front of my coat, drawing our bodies closer to together. She whispered, “Maggie, I—”

AND THEN MY BLOODY PAGER WENT OFF! Bloody fucking hell!

As it turns out, a motorcyclist had collided with a tractor about 15km west of town; he’s still in pretty bad shape, poor sod. But all I knew at the time was that I needed to get to a phone as soon as humanly possible.

I apologised to Jocelyn, told her I’d try to give her a call later, and fairly ran down the footpath and back to the high street.

To be continued. I hope. It’s too late to call tonight. I hope I didn’t scare her off. But I know one thing: that bench by her dad’s grave will now be my go-to spot for when I need equanimity. Among the ancient churchyard’s quiet dead will I conjure lovely thoughts of the living.


	42. 31 December 1999

31 December 1999

It’s very late. Or very early. I’m not sure which. I’m exhausted. And a little bit drunk. Pleasantly, euphorically so. On champagne, to be sure, but also endorphins.

J kissed me!

Just now, downstairs, on my very own doorstep. I may simply die of happiness. I own a house, and I’m in love with a smart, beautiful woman! The new millennium is looking bright: I have found the rest of my life in Broadchurch. 


	43. Quid Pro Quo

Letting her journal fall open onto her lap, Maggie quietly entreats, “Let’s not read any more. It’s too—” But she can’t continue for the sob stuck at the back of her throat. Even after all these years, it’s so hard to remember how happy she was, only to be so profoundly let down just a few hours later.

“I love you,” Jocelyn reminds her, shifting her head slightly to whisper into Maggie’s ear, and then to kiss her favourite spot just under it.

“I know,” Maggie smiles as Jocelyn rests her cheek on her shoulder, but she’s still thinking about that last entry she made in her journal, after Jocelyn had finally kissed her. How, despite the cold night, her body fizzed when Jocelyn’s nose drifted to rest against hers, how the upward curve of Jocelyn’s lips felt as they pressed into her own, supple and warm, and how she tasted of tea and champagne and fine tobacco.

Maggie sang and boogied her way joyously to bed after that.

But while she was giddy with excitement, with the promise of tomorrow, Jocelyn had had a change of heart. She never knew why, and she’s never asked. Until now:

“What happened that night, after you left?”

Before responding, or perhaps by way of starting to, Jocelyn stretches her hand across Maggie’s thigh, slender fingers running purposefully along the inner seam of her cotton plaid pyjama pants. The pleasantly familiar tug low in Maggie’s abdomen returns at Jocelyn’s touch, and Maggie feels rather than hears the deep inhale that presses their torsos more firmly together.

She knows Jocelyn is preparing an answer, an explanation. And she waits patiently for the words she knows her lover, her _wife_, her partner now in all things until death they do part, will share eventually.

When it comes to their relationship, The Barrister has always been so much more eloquent with looks and gestures than with words; spoken language has never really worked that well for them. The irony of this, of two women whose passionate love of words drew them each to careers in which they depend on them every day, but who are still learning to use them to communicate effectively with each other, has not escaped Maggie.

“Nothing,” Jocelyn begins quietly with an exhale, “and everything. I was so happy that night, Maggie. Enraptured. You looked like an angel, you know.”

“Oh, for goodness sake!” Maggie splutters, swatting Jocelyn gently on the knee, “You needed your eyes checked, even back then.”

“No, I didn’t. You were beautiful. Silhouetted by the light from your hallway spilling out into the dark, you took my breath away. I couldn’t _not_ kiss you. I’d wanted to for days. Weeks, probably. Since you visited me in London.

“I all but floated up the hill from your house. I made myself a cup of tea. I came in here, into the living room. I shook off my coat. I don’t remember my feet touching the floor.

“But then I caught sight of the portrait of me when I got silk—the one Mum had in her room at the care home,” she interrupts herself to check in with Maggie, who nods, remembering it on Veronica’s bedside table, “and I started to panic, started to take stock of all the time we’d spent together, and I knew—well, I _thought_ I knew—that I couldn’t have you and my career at the same time. My professional reputation was everything, and I couldn’t risk it.

“I’d always had such a difficult time being taken seriously. Because I’m a woman, and, well…” She gestures broadly down the length of her body.

Thinking back to that day she first saw Jocelyn, sans finery, in the lobby at the Old Bailey more than twenty-five years ago now, Maggie finishes her thought for her: “Because of how you looked.”

Jocelyn nods. “It was already hard enough to be taken seriously, to do my job, without compounding the problem.”

Out of her robes, forty-something Jocelyn had been then as she is now: willowy, elegant, slim legs impossibly long in her black pumps. And her hair, free of the twist required to keep it under that ludicrous wig, hung long and wavy and golden.

Dismayed, but hardly surprised, Maggie spits, “Fucking sexist, homophobic pricks,” mourning the life they’d missed out on because of others’ narrow-mindedness. Because of societal assumptions and bloody expectations. And because of Jocelyn’s fear and Maggie’s pride.

“I’m not brave like you are, Maggie. I’m _not_,” Jocelyn insists, pre-empting the counterargument before Maggie can even take a breath, “and I managed to convince myself that what I felt for you was fleeting, trivial, even silly. That there was too much at stake for both of us. So, I had to end it.”

“You know,” Maggie begins as she draws Jocelyn back towards her to rest her cheek on Jocelyn’s hair, breathing in the sweet smell of lavender, “I always wondered what would’ve happened if I’d invited you in that night.”

“Perhaps we would’ve gotten here, together, much sooner.”

“Or perhaps not. That closet of yours was incredibly deep, my love,” Maggie jokes as she kisses the top of Jocelyn’s head, “and I was terrified of scaring you off.”

Conceding with a slight shrug, Jocelyn turns deliberately to push her body up and into Maggie’s, bringing their breasts together, satin on cotton. Then, holding Maggie’s gaze as if challenging her to some sort of playfully erotic duel, she takes Maggie’s journal from her and places it on the sofa beside them, snakes her right arm around Maggie’s waist, and spreads her palm, soft and hot, on Maggie’s hip for leverage.

She swings her leg over and across so that she is sitting on Maggie’s lap, facing her. Tantalizingly, unhurriedly, she brings her other hand up to sweep those always errant bangs out of Maggie’s eyes and back behind her ear, taking the opportunity to let her long fingers tangle into short strands of blonde hair at the nape of Maggie’s neck before finally leaning in for a kiss, deep and warm and wet.

Maggie responds to all this viscerally, automatically leaning forward to open her mouth to Jocelyn’s searching tongue, fingers burrowing underneath the waistband of those satin pyjama bottoms to pull their bodies firmly together, asking for more. She needs no words now to communicate her desire. She will let Jocelyn touch her, caress her, lick her, climb her, straddle her, fuck her, kiss her, love her. Whatever her. For the rest of their lives. She surrendered to it months ago.

As it turns out, she’s always been Jocelyn’s queer experiment, a role in which she’s revelled since their picnic last summer, when Jocelyn decided finally to come out _and_ confess her love, all in the space of a breathless minute. Since then, The Barrister’s relentless pursuit of excellence has been focused on achieving domestic bliss, including making a study of how best to pleasure Maggie. Over and over and over again.

So, in the interest of supporting Jocelyn’s rigorous research, Maggie just continues to kiss and stroke and encourage, feverishly gripping hips, waist, shoulders, and neck, while Jocelyn somehow manages to wriggle a hand down between them and into Maggie’s soft wetness.

“May I?” Jocelyn breathes into ear.

Maggie’s only response is to cant her hips desperately upwards. Jocelyn’s breath is hot and moist on her neck, those long fingers pushing in to curl rhythmically in and up and around, in and up and around, again and again, a thumb hard on her clit. Fucking her firmly. Steadily. Confidently.

Maggie watches Jocelyn watch her as she cups Jocelyn’s heat, pressing the heel of her hand into smooth fabric moist with the evidence of Jocelyn’s own desire.

And after Maggie comes with her usual exuberance, bucking up and against Jocelyn’s hand, and then comes again, and while she’s still trying to catch her breath, Jocelyn whispers mischievously into her ear, “I’m not scared now.”

“Indeed,” Maggie laughs shakily, light-heartedly, as she comes back to earth, “but you’re gonna need an ibuprofen,” she jokes, referring to the pretzeled position of Jocelyn’s legs straddling her lap.

“I don’t care.”

“You will in the morning.”

Admitting defeat with a grunt and a grumble, Jocelyn clambers as gracefully as possible, and with a little help from Maggie, back over to her side of the couch.

“You enjoyed that,” Jocelyn crows while Maggie, not yet finished, rucks up Jocelyn’s jumper to find bare skin.  
  
“My turn,” Maggie murmurs friskily, splaying her palm hot across Jocelyn’s tummy, fingers reaching down to dip into Jocelyn’s wetness.

But with a tantalizingly sing-songy “not yet,” Jocelyn twists her hips just out of reach, causing Maggie’s hand to drop away. Then, picking up Maggie’s old journal from where she left it beside them on the couch, she asks provocatively, “Shall I continue reading?”

Maggie guffaws, thoroughly enjoying Jocelyn’s little game of _quid pro quo_, while Jocelyn merely reiterates her request with an impish twinkle and a raised brow.

“You are impossible,” Maggie chuckles, even while nestling into Jocelyn’s embrace.

“Yes,” Jocelyn replies, kissing her gently on the temple before donning her reading glasses to take over from where Maggie left off, navigating around that fuzzy white spot.


	44. 1 January 2000

1 January 2000

J is gone.


	45. 5 January 2000

5 January 2000

The Inns of Court can’t be easy places. I know that. She tried to warn me with all those questions about how I’m able to be out at work, how/if it’s affected my career, how I negotiate things like office holiday parties and the like with a partner. But I didn’t get it. I should’ve seen it.

I did see it. I just didn’t want to.

I can’t breathe.


	46. 15 January

15 January

I’ve called the flat twice. Left a message with her clerk.

If I can just talk to her, I think I can somehow get us back to where we were. 


	47. 22 January 2000

22 January 2000

Wrote a letter. Asked her to call me. Told her I love her.

If I could just get her to talk to me...


	48. 13 February 2000

13 February 2000

It’s been six weeks. I have to fall out of love. I don’t know how.


	49. Time After Time

“That’s it?”

Maggie nods against Jocelyn’s shoulder, her gaze soft on the corner of the Kilim throw rug that’s somehow been accidentally crumpled up under the leg of Jocelyn’s reading chair. She inhales, “Until now.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t realize you loved me,” Jocelyn chastises herself anew while flipping back a few pages, “It was so bloody obvious.” She finds what she’s looking for. Contemplating. Questioning. “You didn’t write much. The day I left. Just, ‘J is gone.’”

“I think I had no words.”

_You?!_ Jocelyn is tempted to tease, _how can it be?!_ But she doesn’t. She’s been learning in bits and pieces, since their picnic on the cliff last summer, the breadth and depth of the pain her fear had caused the person she loves most in all the world. 

“And then, a few weeks later,” she shakes her head, turning to the blank pages beyond that last entry, “you stopped writing altogether.”

“Yes.” 

Maggie sits up to lean forward on the sofa, removing herself from Jocelyn’s embrace. The visceral memory of the disappointment, the devastation, threatens to overtake her. She’d thought this terrible feeling long gone. That is, until that day last April when Joe Miller decided to plead not guilty, and it was decided that it should be she who’d be the one to ask Jocelyn to take the Latimer brief. _I know who you mean_, she’d said to Ben then, as that familiar ache rose in her chest. Her stomach twisted into knots as she climbed over the rise later that afternoon, her feet like lead as she opened the back gate, trying to push aside, press down, the years and years of unspoken grief and anger and confusion. Like now.

But then Jocelyn’s hand is on her back, between her shoulder blades, caressing, supporting. Loving. Reminding them both of the journey they’ve made these last few months. Together. 

“Why?” Jocelyn asks, leaning quietly forward. “You, who are such a beautiful writer, just stopped writing?”

“Only in my journal. I write every day,” Maggie reminds her.

“That’s a different sort of writing.”

Maggie concedes with a gentle shrug. 

“I don’t know,” she whispers, beginning an answer to Jocelyn’s question. “Life, I guess. I cried a lot. I was _so fucking angry_ with you!” 

But then, as Jocelyn strokes her back, she exhales and begins again, contemplating that scratch on the coffee table where a metal rivet on the back pocket of Jocelyn’s jeans had scraped through the glossy finish during one particularly raucous evening in front of the fire back in January.

Maggie smiles softly at the memory, and the warmth curling in her core (whether from the memory or from Jocelyn’s hand on her back, she can’t be sure), before coming back to the thread.

“At first, I thought I knew you’d lied, and I figured I’d give you a few days to come to your senses. But then when I didn’t hear from you—even after I wrote _and_ called—I started to think maybe I’d done something wrong, or that I wasn’t good enough for you. Eventually, I just started to think that I somehow misread or misremembered everything from our time together. That maybe I’d made more of it than there was.”

“Of course, you know now,” Maggie feels more than hears Jocelyn murmur into her left ear from behind, “that it was _I_ who did everything wrong, who wasn’t good enough for _you_.” Jocelyn snakes her arm around her waist, pulling them together. “Wasn’t strong enough.”

At that, Maggie turns to meet Jocelyn’s eyes, and Jocelyn clasps Maggie’s hands in her own.

“I fell in love with you that week, Maggie. That week between Christmas and New Years. I just didn’t know it.” 

Jocelyn shakes her head, correcting herself. “No, that’s not right. I did. I _did_ know it. I just couldn’t let it be true.”

Maggie takes all this in, just watching, listening, breathing. Feeling their hands together on her knee, Jocelyn’s arm pulling her closer, fitting their separate experiences and memories together into their fifteen-year puzzle that is, piece by piece, day by day, month by month, nearing completion. And then she continues, pulling her hands away to reach out for her glass of wine on the coffee table: “Meanwhile, there was _The Echo_, and I was in charge. People counted on me, so that helped. 

“Like you, I was a woman in a man’s job. I had lots of other people’s expectations to live up to, and a lot to prove to myself. I was also settling into the house, and into Broadchurch. Still learning its rhythms, its people. 

“That first winter here was really fucking hard. We hardly saw the sun. It was so grey and rainy and cold. And lonely. I made a couple trips up to Halifax to see my sisters and their kids, and work was busy, but…

And then, when the sun finally came out, I started to walk along the cliffs pretty regularly. Which is how I got to know your mum; we kept running into each other, so we just became more intentional about walking together in the evenings.”

“You were very kind to her.”

Maggie shakes her head. “No, Jocelyn. I was very selfish. I’ve already told you that it was she who helped me really settle in here. Veronica knew everyone, and they loved her. And, of course, she picked me up and pulled me back together over and over again when breast cancer was kicking my sorry arse. She was a good friend to me.”

“And you to her. She always looked forward to your annual backyard cookouts.”

Maggie chuckles, sipping from her wine glass, “Did she?!”

“Always said they were quite fun,” confirms Jocelyn with a nod. “You even rented a water slide once, I seem to remember her telling me?”

“Yes!” Maggie guffaws, throwing her head back in delight, “I’d forgotten about that! It was for the kids.”

“Of course it was,” Jocelyn affirms sarcastically, eyes narrowed, a playful challenge for the truth. Because she knows there’s absolutely no way Maggie Radcliffe would have a water slide in her own backyard and not give it a go herself.

“I only wanted to make sure it was safe,” Maggie proclaims, but the playful glint in her eyes gives her away.

“Hah! I wish I could have seen that,” Jocelyn says before almost whispering, “I wish I’d been there, with you. For all of it.” 

“So do I.”

“I am sorry, Maggie,” Jocelyn sighs, shaking her head, “for all the lies and the mess.”

“I am, too, Jocelyn. For _knowing_ about the lies and the mess and not trying harder to do anything about any of it.” 

They’ve ended up sitting side by side, each perched on the front of the couch. Together, but separately. Maggie’s elbows are on her knees, distractedly cradling her wine glass in both hands. If only she’d tried calling again. If only she’d gone up to London. If only… 

“I’ve already told you,” she hears Jocelyn remind her, running long fingers enticingly up the length of her spine to the find bare skin just underneath the v-neck of her t-shirt, “It wouldn’t have done any good.” 

She feels more than hears the words. The breath of Jocelyn’s soft murmur is warm under her ear, her breast pressed close and soft against Maggie’s arm. And those fingers have moved now to the nape of her neck. Fingertips trailing elegant little patterns along her hairline.

Maggie shivers.

“You’re cold,” Jocelyn declares worriedly, already up and leaning across to her reading chair to grab a throw.

“No,” Maggie stops her. She grabs her hand, pulls her back down to sitting. 

The way Jocelyn looks at her, the way she’s always looked at her, still causes her breath to catch. She watches Jocelyn watch her with a quirked eyebrow, eyes dark and wide, as she reaches up to tuck an errant curl behind her ear. And Jocelyn grins quite saucily while Maggie’s thumb grazes ever so gently along the length of Jocelyn’s cheekbone and down across her bottom lip before leaning in to catch the soft curve of Jocelyn’s mouth under her own. 

This time, Maggie notes, it is Jocelyn who shivers at the heat of Maggie’s palm on her bare torso, rucking up the knitted hem of Jocelyn’s jumper to get under the silky softness of her pyjama top.

“Are you absolutely positive you want to sell your house?”

“Mmmnn,” Maggie responds distractedly; she’s too caught up with exploring the nipple that her fingers have coaxed to a perfect tautness.

“I didn’t realize what it’s meant to you,” Jocelyn manages to say, arching into Maggie’s warm hand and lifting her chin slightly to make way for the peppering of swift kisses along her jawline, “You could still take it off the market, maybe let it?”

“Why?” Maggie queries, halting momently her exploration of the soft skin, like crushed silk, “You having second thoughts about me moving in here?” She’s joking, of course, but there’s just the slightest twinge of doubt lurking behind the words.

“No. Never,” Jocelyn reassures her, “I can’t wait. It’s just…”

“Just…?” Sensing Jocelyn’s concern, the seriousness of the question, Maggie pulls away. Watching. Waiting.

“I worry that you’ll begrudge it,” explains Jocelyn, fingers tracing the fine blue lines on the back of Maggie’s hand in hers, “having to give up something that’s meant so much to you. Freedom, independence. I don’t want you to resent having to sacrifice that for me. I don’t want you to resent _me_.”

“You need to be here.”

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

“I love this house, Jocelyn. Always have done. And I love you.”

“Also not an answer to my question.”

“Well,” Maggie jokes, “maybe if you let me paint the kitchen purple!”

Thoroughly unamused, Jocelyn tightens her lips, artfully arching an eyebrow.

“Look,” Maggie says, turning on her knees so that she can lean forward against the back of the couch to reach the stereo and their recently-amalgamated collection of CDs on the bookshelf behind them, “I’m not going to lie and say I haven’t thought about it. But we don’t know what’s going to happen with your sight, and neither do the doctors. So,” she asserts as she flips through the CDs, “why not stay here, in familiar territory, where you know your way around?” 

“Ah hah!” she exclaims when she finds the one she wants. She puts it in, hits play. 

“Plus,” she continues, the CD player in Jocelyn’s ancient stereo system whirring into action as she pushes buttons to get to the track she’s looking for, “this place is bigger than mine. Room enough for us to each have our own space, while still being cozy.” 

“Now,” Maggie asks, both hands extended in front of Jocelyn as the music, more than familiar to them both, fills the room, “dance with me?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Yes.”

“But—”

“Oh, shut up and dance with me, old woman.”

“You’re sure?” Jocelyn asks, even as she takes Maggie’s hands. 

By way of an answer, Maggie draws Jocelyn to her, cants her hips up into Jocelyn’s and whispers against her lips, singing along with the music as they sway together:

> _Flashback, warm nights_  
_Almost left behind_  
_Suitcases of memories_  
_Time after_
> 
> _Sometimes you picture me_  
_I'm walking too far ahead_  
_You're calling to me, I can't hear_  
_What you've said _  
_Then you say, go slow_  
_I fall behind_  
_The second hand unwinds_
> 
> _If you're lost, you can look and you will find me_  
_Time after time_

It is Maggie who takes the lead, fingers clasped lightly, a palm in the small of Jocelyn’s back, and moves them together in a circle, steering deftly around Jocelyn’s reading chair, the plant stand by the fireplace, and Maggie’s stack of recent _Guardians_ on the floor, all the while taking care not to trip them both up on the edge of the throw rug.

“You remember.”

Leaning in first to nuzzle Jocelyn’s cheek and then her jaw, Maggie confirms, “I remember everything about that night, Jocelyn.” She kisses her way back under Jocelyn’s ear. “Our night in London.” 

“You picked the music, even then,” Jocelyn remembers.

“Yes,” Maggie murmurs while using her nose to burrow as far down as she can to nibble the bare skin under Jocelyn’s roll neck. “I tried all my tricks.”

Jocelyn moans and leans her head back, giving her access. Making space. Opening. Just for her. 

“You’ve always seen me, Maggie.”

“Have I?” Maggie queries playfully, coming up for air.

“You know you have.”

Maggie grins as she fits their hips more firmly together, drawing Jocelyn tightly to her, breasts against breasts, silk on cotton. They sway gently, in time with the music, singing softly to each other:

> _If you fall I will catch you, I will be waiting_  
_Time after time_  
_If you're lost, you can look and you will find me_  
_Time after time_

And as the music fades, Jocelyn whispers tantalizingly against Maggie’s open lips, “Let’s go upstairs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics to Cyndi Lauper's _Time After Time_:
> 
> Lying in my bed I hear the clock tick  
And think of you  
Caught up in circles  
Confusion is nothing new  
Flashback, warm nights  
Almost left behind  
Suitcases of memories  
Time after
> 
> Sometimes you picture me  
I'm walking too far ahead  
You're calling to me, I can't hear  
What you've said  
Then you say, go slow  
I fall behind  
The second hand unwinds
> 
> If you're lost, you can look and you will find me  
Time after time  
If you fall, I will catch you, I will be waiting  
Time after time  
If you're lost, you can look and you will find me  
Time after time  
If you fall I will catch you, I will be waiting  
Time after time
> 
> After my picture fades and darkness has  
Turned to gray  
Watching through windows  
You're wondering if I'm okay  
Secrets stolen from deep inside  
The drum beats out of time
> 
> If you're lost, you can look and you will find me  
Time after time  
If you fall, I will catch you, I will be waiting  
Time after time
> 
> You said go slow  
I fall behind  
The second hand unwinds
> 
> If you're lost, you can look and you will find me  
Time after time  
If you fall, I will catch you, I'll be waiting  
Time after time  
If you're lost, you can look and you will find me  
Time after time  
If you fall, I will catch you, I'll be waiting  
Time after time  
Time
> 
> Songwriters: Robert Hyman / Cyndi Lauper  
Time After Time lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner Chappell Music, Inc.


	50. Understanding

Later, there is just them, breathing heavily together in the wrinkled linen sheets, coming back down to earth, savouring each other’s nearness, the weight of their bodies leaning into and on each other. Still luxuriating—even after so many months—in the possibility, the thrilling potential of having found each other, finally, in the same time and place. 

Why on earth had it taken them so bloody long to get here?

Eyes closed, Maggie is curled into Jocelyn’s warmth, her head on the swell of her breast, listening to her heartbeat, fingers still moving gently inside Jocelyn’s wet heat. Rhythmic little thrusts inside and then one last firm stroke force Jocelyn to arch her back up into Maggie’s fingers, pressing against her, one final time. 

With hands tangled in Maggie’s hair, Jocelyn comes with a powerful, silent shudder and then, with a ragged exhale, wraps her arms and a leg protectively around Maggie, kisses her forehead, holds her close. She knows she will never let her intrepid journalist go. Not ever again.

The scent of them, their mutual arousal and ultimate satisfaction, their emotional and physical release, radiates off their naked bodies. It is musky and briny and hot, Maggie notes as she breathes in deeply, serenely, eyes still closed. Their coupling is so much more than lovemaking, somehow. It is raw emotion, joyous and comforting. It is longing followed by completion, contentment. And underneath, there’s that lovely trace of lavender, a foundation of their union that is all Jocelyn’s own. 

It is happiness. 

It is home. 

A soft smile forms on Maggie’s lips as Jocelyn adjusts their blankets up and around her bare shoulder, tucking them in. Without opening her eyes, she burrows more snugly into Jocelyn, the fullness of a breast against her cheek. Drowsy and content, enjoying the little pulses in her core as Jocelyn traces soft circles on her hip.

After some time, who knows how long, she feels Jocelyn inhale under her, saying quietly, but purposefully, “My home is where you are, Maggie, and I don’t care where that is.” 

Jocelyn shifts them slightly so she can see into Maggie’s eyes. “Do you know that? I need you to know that.”

“I know it.”

“Do you?” Jocelyn asks, shifting them again so that they’re lying side by side.

“Yes,” Maggie affirms, reaching her lips to meet Jocelyn’s, “but we need to be here. And I really am alright with that.”

Jocelyn quirks her head almost imperceptibly, but her narrowed eyes and pursed lips reveal her disbelief. 

“You need to trust that I know my own mind,” Maggie rebukes.

Jocelyn’s gaze turns soft, thoughtful, in the seconds before she leans in to touch her forehead to Maggie’s, whispering, as if in prayer, “I do.”

Having closed her eyes to savour this new understanding between them now, Maggie is surprised by the heat of Jocelyn’s lips on hers. A chaste kiss to seal the deal before Jocelyn shifts to return them both to their repose, pulling Maggie into the crook of her arm. And Maggie puts her ear back to Jocelyn’s heartbeat. 

And then:

“Why did you stop having the cookouts?”

Maggie sighs deeply, considering. “I don’t know,” she says, quite honestly; she’s never really thought about it before. “They sort of petered out, I guess. Amy took a job in London, and Steve moved north to be nearer his parents. Your mum went into the care home, I met Lil, and then after Danny…” She shrugs. “So much has changed. I guess my heart hasn’t been in it.”

“We _could_ invite everyone here,” Jocelyn ventures, testing her thought out loud. “Ben and Sharon. Paul, if you’d like; I know you and he have become rather close these last months.”

Maggie chuckles, “An odd pair we make, to be sure.”

“Your friend Yvonne, of course, and maybe Gloria at the addictions centre?”

“Really?” Maggie shifts so she can lift her head to check the veracity of this offer from her usually reclusive, introverted partner.

“Mmmnnn. I might even invite a few of my colleagues from London…”

“Are you sure?” queries Maggie, knowing full well the weight of this step: these were the very people whose opinions had so mattered to Jocelyn that she’d been willing to sacrifice their life lived, and loved, together.

Jocelyn nods. “I don’t know if they’d come all the way down, but it might make a nice weekend for them.”

“It’s a great idea,” Maggie affirms encouragingly, honoured yet admittedly astonished that Jocelyn’s come up with this plan all on her own, “but it’s a big undertaking, feeding and entertaining all those people. Traipsing through the house. And you do like your privacy.”

“I want them to meet you. And we never did have a wedding reception.”


	51. 13 April 2015

13 April 2015

It certainly has been a good long while since I wrote here, and so much has happened in the intervening years. Some of it bad, most of it good. Suffice to say that I write now on the balcony at what I used to think of as Veronica’s house. But now I live here. With Jocelyn. The enigmatic barrister I know from way back, from my days on Fleet Street.

Because I never did fall out of love after all. And life is weird.

My house sold this morning. To a young lesbian couple and their five-year old daughter. Cute as a button, and she’s already planning how she’ll decorate her new bedroom. Which used to be my bedroom. For sixteen years. The first bedroom that had really been _mine_. No sharing with my sisters and none of the rules and restrictions that come with renting. I never did paint it purple, of course, never really wanted to. But it was marvellous to know that I could have.

And that little girl might just do it!

It was quite empty the other day after the movers worked their magic; our footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor.

And out the window on the wall where my bed used to be, I could see J out in the driveway supervising up and into the back of the moving lorry the final stack of boxes, full of books that have since found a new home on shelves here at J’s house.

_Our_ house. Home.

All the windows were shut, so I could just about hear J chatting with the movers, presumably reminding them to grab a quick lunch before heading up to Clifftop Way; J and I weren’t meant to get there for at least another half an hour, and it wouldn’t have done for the lads to be twiddling their thumbs in the driveway, waiting for us.

On the pale minty green wall, just to the right of where my dresser stood, a small, beige stain caught my attention. Must’ve been from that time a few years ago, I realized, when I managed to splatter an entire bottle of foundation all over everything. I thought I’d cleaned it all up, but I chuckled when I realized I’d clearly missed a spot.

And then J was in the doorway. “What’s funny?” she asked, leaning against the doorframe with that alluring insouciance. Bloody hell, she’s still gorgeous. Like a goddamn 1940s movie star, all sultry and alluring and mysterious. Honestly. But I digress…

I said something about all the memories. Sixteen years’ worth. And J nodded pensively. I think she still regrets having missed sharing most of them. Having been _in_ them.

I decided to shift us from maudlin nostalgia onto something rather more fun: I turned round to face her full on with my best saucy smirk to remind her that we spent our first night together there, in that bedroom.

“So we did,” she whispered with an impish grin, and reached for my hand.

I let her take it. I will always let her take it. Pulling me in, breathing her warmth, her love for me as she threaded her fingers into mine. I wish I could explain how good it feels. To be near her, to be _with_ her. But despite my training, the years of experience, I find that I don’t have the words. To write about how my heart leaps, how my breath catches. About my raw need for her touch.

We kissed, chastely, her lips curving softly into mine, before she said “Come, there’s something we must do before we go,” and I let her lead me down the hall. It was all so intriguing, and I was giggling as we rounded the corner into the tiny foyer.

Then I got annoyed because I thought the moving lads had forgotten their dolly.

But they, hadn’t as it turns out. It was J. She planned it all. She lifted the dolly’s handle from where the movers left it to rest against the wall, and said, “I asked them if we could borrow it.”

All I managed was a guffaw and a stammer as she turned that contraption towards me, gesturing for me to get on the little flat part where the boxes go.

Honestly, I thought she’d lost her good sense.

But she’d remembered from one of my journal entries from all those years ago that I’d told my realtor when I bought the house that someone was going to have to wheel me out of it one way or another. I can’t believe she remembered that, and I think my Yorkshire roots may have revealed themselves in whatever I said to her to avoid getting on that thing.

But then she called me an “old bint.” A deliberate challenge, so I had to do it. I had to get on that contraption and let her push me over the threshold, out the door, and to the car, both of us laughing all the way.

And now it's time for tea.

_The End._


End file.
